


elephantastic

by kokiyas



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, F/F, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5466956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kokiyas/pseuds/kokiyas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becky rolls over onto her side, facing the wall. “I think,” she says, very carefully, “That you don’t need me holding you back.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	elephantastic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salamandelbrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamandelbrot/gifts).



> Set immediately after the November 9th episode of RAW, which featured this singles match between Paige and Becky Lynch (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a-iPiHRMTnY). After Becky wins, Paige attacks her and puts her into a submission maneouvre; Charlotte comes out to save Becky and chase Paige away.
> 
> Becky did work as a manager for the Knight Dynasty (Paige, then Britani Knight, and her mother Sweet Saraya) in 2011 when they made their SHIMMER debut.

The hotel room is freezing. As soon as they get in, Becky flops onto the nearest bed, kicks off her shoes and wiggles under the covers, still wearing her coat and hat. Charlotte pokes at the thermostat, but nothing seems to happen.

“I could call Reception?”

Becky shrugs, or at least the blanket moves as though she might be. “Yeah, if you want.”

Which is the other thing. Becky isn’t sulking, exactly, but she’s been quiet ever since Charlotte helped her backstage. It’s been three hours since she beat Paige and she still hasn’t said something like “Well, at least now we’re all on the same _page_ about her being a total bitch” and laughed at her own joke.

She hasn’t even smiled.

Charlotte never used to care that much, she’s sure of it. But she knows things now. Knows how Becky likes her tea and how she chews on her bottom lip, absently, when she’s thinking about what to say. Knows how the next time Charlotte gets control of the car radio, she’ll roll her eyes and make fun of whatever she chooses but will sing along with the chorus so long as Charlotte goes first. Silly things which don’t mean anything – shouldn’t mean anything – but the thought of Becky quiet and hurting makes the palms of Charlotte’s hands itch and something fierce and ugly squeeze against her chest.

She wants, badly, to hit something.

Charlotte looks around the room for inspiration, spots the electric kettle. There’s a mini pot of drinks sachets next to it; they already ate the complimentary shortbread last night, sitting next to one another on Charlotte’s bed and flipping through the TV channels and laughing.

“I’m making some tea,” she tells Becky. “You want any?”

“No thanks.”

“Sure?”

“I’m fine.” (Which isn’t true. Which is, in fact, so very not true that Charlotte gives in to the urge to pull a face, and doesn’t feel any better for it.)

Charlotte sets both mugs out anyway. Becky’s not the only one who can play at being stubborn.

By the time the drinks are ready, Becky’s sitting up in bed and she takes her tea. “Thanks,” she says to her knees, but then scoots over so there’s enough room for Charlotte to sit beside her if she wants.

Charlotte wants. She ditches her own coat and shoes, tugs playfully at Becky’s hat and wriggles under the covers. It occurs to her that maybe that’s not what Becky meant, exactly, but she’s too cold to care.

“Are you planning on sleeping in that coat?”

“If I have to.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be used to this kind of weather?”

“I am!” And, when Charlotte looks at her: “Well, I was, anyway. Before Florida. All that sunshine.”

“Oh no, that must have been so terrible.”

“It ruined me,” Becky says mildly. “Ruined me for my natural climate, at least. I’ll never be able to move back home, not without investing in some thermal long johns or something.”

“We’d get used to it,” Charlotte says – and she doesn’t mean it like _that_ , but Becky just nudges her knee.

“Yeah, I know, but I’m cold now.”

Which. Yes. OK. They talk that way about their plans, sometimes, but always about title matches, PPVs, always what they’ll do as a team, or at least as allies. Only ever about work. But all the rest of it—Charlotte doesn’t know. It’s nice, that’s all, to be talking as though they’ll still be friends outside of work years down the line. As though that’s not even in question.

“At least put your pyjamas on.”

“You go put your PJs on.”

“But then I’d have to get out of bed.”

“It’s _my_ bed,” Becky points out. “You’re lucky I haven’t already kicked you out.”

She should probably leave her alone, Charlotte knows. Get some sleep before she flies out, and let Becky rest up before her own match tomorrow. But she’s warm where she is, and Becky’s staying in Europe for another week, the first proper break since they came up together, and Charlotte doesn’t want the night to end just yet.

Becky reaches past her to set down her mug, lies on her back and stares straight at the ceiling. “You know,” she says, almost conversationally, “I couldn’t wait to get my hands on her tonight. That dirty, rotten, no-good, backstabbing—“

“—And you beat her,” Charlotte reminds her. “Becky, you still won.”

“Yeah. For all of three seconds, maybe, before I needed you to save me.” Becky’s eyes flick over to her and then back up. “My very own superhero.”

“I wouldn’t say need—“

Becky shakes her head. “Yeah, I kind of did.”

“OK, fine, so you needed help. Bex, you think I’m going to think you’re weak? That I’ll let her hurt you? That’s bull, and you know it.”

Becky moves over so that she’s lying on her side, facing the wall. “I think,” she says, very carefully, “That you don’t need me holding you back.”

(But when Charlotte looks down, her hands are gripping the blanket so, so tight.)

The hot twisting feeling in her belly isn’t anger – that is, it’s not _only_ anger – but that’s easier to deal with, and Charlotte presses her fist against her eyes until she’s sure that she’s not about to cry. “Don’t you dare,” she snarls. “Don’t you _dare_ quit on me now.”

“I’m not—“

“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” Charlotte snaps. She shoves Becky’s shoulder down against the mattress so that Becky has no choice but to roll onto her back and meet her eyes. “You’re letting Paige drive a wedge between us – which is exactly what she wants to do, by the way, break us apart – and now she’s in your head, making you think—“

Becky juts her jaw out, defiant. “Makes me think what?”

“I’m not the one thinking it. You tell me.”

“No, say it.”

She doesn’t want to. As though, maybe, if it says unsaid then it won’t be able to hurt Becky anymore; as though everything can still go away, and Charlotte can get her normal chirpy Becky back, so long as she doesn’t say those words.

After a long moment, Becky sighs and shrugs off Charlotte’s hand. “Yeah,” she says quietly. Disappointed, like she should have known better. “That’s what I thought.”

And no, actually, Charlotte’s not about to feel guilty for not joining in with Becky’s little pity party. She won’t.

She’s new to this friendship thing. With Sasha and Summer Rae, it had all been simple and, admittedly, mostly about them making fun of other people. Even with Bayley, they were so focused on trying to deal with Sasha and Becky in the ring that their relationship never had to go much farther than friendly co-workers, albeit ones who hugged more than most.

It’s different with Becky. She doesn’t know why – and it turns out that _how_ is pretty much a crapshoot, too – but she wants to make Becky happy. And to take everything that could ever make Becky sad, or lonely, or scared, and take them somewhere far away and then set fire to them.

And then reverse a truck over their ashes a few times for good measure.

“You think you aren’t good enough,” Charlotte says eventually. She’s not good at the part where they talk about feelings, and nine times out of ten Becky’s content to laugh things off and Pollyanna herself into bouncing back happier than ever.

(It’s a skill Charlotte does not share.)

But this time is so obviously the one in ten, the bad one, and Charlotte doesn’t know what to do.

“You think you aren’t good enough for me,” she echoes. Her eyes are prickling. She swipes at her face with the back of her hand. “You think that you can’t keep up with me, that you’re getting in the way. That people – and know that in Paige’s case, I’m using the term loosely – are going to come after you to get to me, because I will always defend you, and you know that is _never_ going to be in question, and you think sooner or later that’s going to cost me my title.”

Becky goes to turn her head away, and Charlotte catches her chin and holds her – gently – in place.

“Am I wrong?”

Becky shuts her eyes. There’s a long moment when her breath hitches and her bottom lip trembles and Charlotte’s nails are biting into her palms as she wills her friend not to cry.

Then Becky pushes herself up onto her elbows, turning so that Charlotte can’t see her face, and pulls off her hat. Makes a show of straightening her hair, combing her fingers through it, and by the time she’s done, her eyes are shining but not spilling over yet.

“Yeah, well. And the rest,” Becky says, aiming for bravado and missing by a country mile.

“What rest?”

Another pause, and then: “Ah, ignore me, you got the gist. I’m probably just tired. Good night’s sleep, and I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.” Becky smiles – or tries to, anyway. It’s all watery and tight and the exact opposite of convincing, but it’s still a smile and she’s not technically crying, so that feels like progress at least.

Charlotte’s got to get some credit for that, right?

Part of her wants to quit while she’s still ahead, go back to her own bed and let Becky work her own way out of her funk. She made tea. She asked after Becky. She even came close to letting Becky cry on her shoulder. Whatever best friend duties exist in situations like this, Charlotte has surely done her bit.

It just hasn’t been enough.

“Yeah,” Charlotte says, meaning the exact opposite. “Yeah, you know I know that’s not true.”

“Know, me? No!” Wobbly-voiced, trying to hide it. Charlotte only knows to look for the wordplay because the corner of Becky’s mouth turns up, very slightly, the way it always does when she’s about to reach a punchline.

“Bex. Please.”

“It’s nothing, I’m just being stupid.”

“Almost certainly,” Charlotte agrees, and gets an elbow in her side for her trouble. “Ow! Come on, tell me anyway.”

Shrugging, Becky sits up and pulls her knees against her chest. Charlotte follows suit and, without thinking about it, reaches out to cover Becky’s hand with one of her own. It takes Becky a moment to work through whatever it is she’s thinking about, figure out how to put it into words.

“It was my idea to call us the Best At Everything,” she begins, way too calmly.

Charlotte has to think for a second before she remembers – NXT, Becky and Sasha’s tag team. It’s easy to forget, now, that they used to be on opposite sides.

“We were talking about names, about what we were going to do together. And then Sasha said we had to pick a name that showed off our strengths.”

It makes a lot of sense, actually – that, given such instructions, Becky would have thought about it and then come back to Sasha, all wide-eyed and eager, and told her that their strengths were _everything_. It’s the kind of boast a five year old would make.

“And I meant it, you know? Everything. She was my best friend. I thought she was incredible. She made me feel like I could be incredible, too, as long as I was with her.”

Hearing Becky say as much stings. Which is stupid, Charlotte knows, because they certainly aren’t friends now, but she still can’t tamp down that flare of jealousy at the wistful note creeping into Becky’s voice.

“She stood on your head,” Charlotte reminds her. It’s not that she doesn’t want to listen to Becky’s story, or explanation or whatever; she just thinks that Becky needs the reminder before she starts getting upset again. “She was not a very good friend to you, you do understand that?”

On the blanket between their knees, Becky starts to trace small concentric circles. “There was that,” she admits, and then gives Charlotte a tiny grin. “You could say she really _stepped up_ to meet my challenge _head on_. Get it?”

“I get it.”

“Because she stepped-“

“Becky. Focus. She was a terrible friend.”

“My best friend,” Becky corrects her again, and the burst of jealousy is no less painful the second time around. “I was so excited every time I saw her. You know when you love being around someone, like you’re looking forward to seeing them so much that when you do, you just get all giddy?”

Giddy is not in Charlotte’s nature. But Becky’s pretty much made of the stuff, so Charlotte nods and squeezes Becky’s hand to let her know she should go on.

“I felt like I was untouchable. Like I could do anything.” Her eyes go distant, caught up in some memory Charlotte won’t share. “Like I was magic. That’s how she made me feel, not by doing anything special but just…”

“Being your friend,” says Charlotte. Less sarcastically than she was trying for. More understanding, almost.

She doesn’t want to think about that.

“Yeah,” Becky agrees. She stares down at the blanket where she’s still drawing shapes with her index finger, like that needs her full attention.

“And?”

Because that can’t be it. The whole point of this conversation isn’t going to end with Becky saying that she’s upset by how much she misses Sasha Banks, of all people. Charlotte won’t let that be it.

“I messed it up.” So quietly that it doesn’t register with Charlotte straight away that Becky has said anything at all. She shrugs helplessly. “I always do that. I get too happy and then I get it all wrong, and I ruin everything.”

That hits like a blow to the chest. Charlotte tries to say something. Can’t.

“Not just with Sasha. Saraya, Paige’s mum, asked me to manage them for a bit. And I had fun, until I ruined that one, too.” Charlotte’s only ever heard bits of this story before; Paige never liked to go into detail about her family, and for some reason Becky’s always followed her lead and kept Paige’s secrets for her. “And what I did to Bayley. And wrestling with Paige, that was a dream come true for me - I thought for both of us. And then…”

Becky trails off, and gestures awkwardly at her forearm where Paige had grabbed her. “Well, you know the rest. PTO on the announce table.”

“She attacked us first,” Charlotte points out roughly. The rest of it, the stuff with Saraya and Bayley and even Sasha, Charlotte doesn’t care about and can’t speak to. But Paige was the one who started it. She’s the one who betrayed them.

“You won the title,” Becky says mildly, almost like she’s excusing it. “Me, I don’t have a belt for her to get jealous over. She just hates me. My friends always do, in the end.” She raises her head, looks straight at Charlotte – and she’s smiling ruefully.

Until this moment, Charlotte assumed that Becky was incapable of doing anything ruefully, or wryly, or any other way which required her to feel with anything less than the whole of her heart. Chalk up another discovery she wishes she’d never had occasion to make.

“Char, I don’t want you to hate me.”

Charlotte lets go of Becky’s hand, but only so she can slip her arm around Becky’s shoulders and pull her close. The bed groans.

“Idiot,” she mutters. Her voice cracks. “Like I ever could.”

And yes, OK, she technically could. If Becky had sided with Paige back then, if she were to turn against her tomorrow. Charlotte has so much capacity for hate it wouldn’t be a problem to add another name to her list.

But Becky _would never_. And Charlotte knows that for sure. It’s not trust, not in the way that people usually mean by trust, but something deep down inside the lizard brain which only understands _wanting_ and _having_ , and which knows that Becky is hers.

“It’s going to keep happening,” Becky says, but she makes no move to push Charlotte away. “Not just Paige, either. Anyone who wants to get at you will know that coming through me _works_.”

“They’ll know that coming after you _pisses me off._ ”

“If you keep having to rescue me on top of everything else, you’ll end up dropping that title.”

Charlotte swallows. “You don’t know that.”

“If you did lose a title match because of me, you’d resent me. You would, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“If, I said.”

“If you quit on me,” Charlotte snarls. “If you leave me alone, with Paige and everyone else coming for my title, if you make me do this by myself then I don’t care how much you tell yourself that it’s for my own good, I’ll hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone.”   

“That’s not actually an answer.”

“I’ll never forgive you.” Anger makes it easier for her to think, make the connections that have been eluding her all night long. “If you lose my title, you’ll help me win it back; if you hurt me, you’ll make it up to me, but Becky, I promise you, you walk away from me now – after everything we’ve been through, after everything I’ve done for you - then I will spend the rest of my life hating you.”

For a second, she thinks she might have gone too far. Said too much. Scared Becky off. But then Becky makes this little hiccupy sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and Charlotte pats her back as best as she can through that ridiculous puffy coat.

She means it, too. See, here’s the thing about being the daughter of a sixteen-time champion: the only way you get to be champion more than once is if someone takes away your belt. You have to lose first.

It’s not that Charlotte wants to lose, especially not to Paige. But some day, her title reign will end so as long as Becky helps Charlotte get it back when it happens, so as long as Becky doesn’t make her lose on purpose, she’ll live with it.

This, right here, is what she wants to keep hold of.

At last, Becky straightens up and dabs at her eyes. “Some team we make,” she grumbles, but there’s no real sadness behind it. It’s almost, but not quite, playful.

“Damn right.” That gets Becky to smile. Properly, this time. “You aren’t going to hurt me, Becca.”

“What,” Becky says innocently. “You mean, I won’t be taking a _page_ out of you-know-who’s book?”

Charlotte pokes her. “No, you won’t. I know you. You’re my best friend.”

“ _Bex_ -t friend.”

Which isn’t even that funny, but Charlotte’s so relieved to hear her giggle again she ugly-snorts with laughter, and that just sets Becky off again.

“Alright, alright,” says Becky, after she’s managed to collect herself. “I love you too, bestie. Now get out my bed.” When Charlotte doesn’t move immediately, she play-shoves her away. “Go on, I’ll be fine.”

Charlotte hums her agreement and lets Becky reclaim her duvet and curl up in bed. By morning, she’ll have wriggled her way into a pretzel-shape the way she always does; even in her sleep, Becky has a hard time staying still. Charlotte knows that about her now.

She wonders, for a second, if Paige or Sasha know the same, but Charlotte won’t let herself be stupid about this. She takes her things through to the bathroom.

Over the sound of the faucet, she can still hear Becky – not crying, exactly, but sniffling every once in a while. She’s fine, though, Charlotte tells herself. Becky said so. They talked it out and Charlotte fixed everything and now they can just get back to normal.

It’s just… God, it’s the biggest cliché there is, but Charlotte didn’t come here to make friends, and for the most part she hasn’t. There were the BFFs, yes, but it was easy to say goodbye when they fell apart. She doesn’t miss them. She doesn’t mind that Paige is gone, either – minds the way Paige chose to go, absolutely, but not the fact it’s just her and Becky now.

She cares about Becky. Cares a lot, and not in the same way Becky does – falling in and out of love, bouncing between happy and sad, everything intense and real but always only ever temporary.

Charlotte’s no less intense in her affections but she’s a lot more picky about who she shares them with. She can see herself caring about Becky – loving Becky, let’s be real – for the rest of her life, maybe.

Will be fine, Becky had said. As in, she’s not OK yet.

Charlotte brushes her teeth against the sour taste of guilt. If it were the other way round, if it were Charlotte having a crisis of faith then Becky would have talked her out of it in about two minutes flat. Probably with a lot more hugging and forehead-kissing and less promising to hate her forever if she doesn’t get over herself, too.

(Charlotte has never pretended to be good at this sort of thing.)

She rinses out her mouth, takes out some make-up remover and begins to clean her face. Through the wall, she hears Becky sniff again.

So here’s the thing: Charlotte doesn’t know a lot about making and keeping friends. But she knows that Becky absolutely would, and Charlotte’s getting to be quite the expert in Becky Lynch.

There’s half an idea there.

Is it stupid? Yes. Is it weird? Absolutely. But, hands down, guaranteed, it is also exactly the kind of thing that Becky would do, and Charlotte has taken worse role models in the past. Before she has chance to think better of it, she picks up her eyeliner and marches back into the other room.

“Coat off,” she tells Becky briskly, who does as she says. Her arms where Paige had grabbed her are covered with bruises the colour of cheap wine. “Do they hurt?”

“Not much.”

( _Good,_ Charlotte thinks. _So I won’t have to kill her before tomorrow morning at least._

She pushes that impulse down. Takes hold of Becky’s wrist, very gently, and uncaps the pencil.)

“Here, don’t move.”

Charlotte meant the arm, but Becky goes still all over – which she _never_ does, for the record, unless something’s badly wrong. But Becky’s watching her with the scrunched-up mouth that means she’s giving it her full attention, so Charlotte carries on.

The first line's drawn. Halfway through the second, the bit that’s going to be the head, Charlotte remembers that she’s no great artist either, but it’s too late to stop. She finishes off the head, the body. Adds eyes, two round ears – a tail, when she remembers, which is way too long and at a biologically impossible angle.

A trunk, curved off to one side.

It’s not about to win any prizes, OK, but it’s at least recognisable as an elephant. Becky turns her arm this way and that, studying it.

“That’s an elephant,” Becky says, unnecessarily. “What is this, a very labour-intensive way of calling me Dumbo?”

“ _No_.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t mind. That’s real dedication right there to the art of trash-talking. Expermenting with a bold new medium. I’d be impressed.” She’s doing it on purpose, the teasing, trying to get things back to how they should be, but it needles Charlotte all the same.

Despite the cold room, Charlotte feels uncomfortably warm. This is why she doesn’t do things like this, this is why she doesn’t put that kind of thing out there for other people to see.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she says. It’s easier to talk if she looks away so she stares at the bedside table, tells their empty mugs, “I meant – and I mean it, don’t _laugh_ – that you’re important to me.”

Becky loops her other arm around Charlotte. “That’s sweet,” she says, conciliatory. She doesn’t get it.

“Bex. No. I mean, Paige was wrong. You… aren’t irr-elephant.”

Becky makes this muffled squeak and immediately crams her fist against her mouth to keep quiet. It does close to nothing to stop the next burst of laughter.

Out of everything Charlotte has ever done at WWE, this is not the worst or the most humiliating. It doesn’t even make the top ten. But it’s more disappointing than the rest, because there she was trying to get it right, and look where that’s got her.

Laughed at.

“Sorry!” Becky blurts out. “Sorry, no, I’m not laughing at _you_.” Her eyes are twinkling with amusement, though, and she’s not even bothering to hide it. “I’m laughing at your joke!”

Charlotte rolls her eyes.

“I am,” Becky insists. “Oh my god, that’s genius. Irrelephant! I love it. Love it, love it, love it. I’m going to tell everyone!”

“Don’t.” Charlotte reaches out to intercept Becky before she can get her phone, loops her arm around Becky and falls back onto the mattress. “Look, I don’t want to make this into a whole thing or anything, I just…”

“What?”

Eyes closed, so she can pretend Becky can’t see anything on her face. “I just wanted to make you happy,” she confesses to the ceiling.

When she does look up, Becky’s propped herself up on one elbow. Smiling. Not laughing at her, or her stupid elephant, or anything. Leaning forward, slowly, so that Charlotte has plenty of time to pull away – if she chooses.

She stays where she is.

“You do,” Becky swears, and she tangles their pinky fingers together. Another promise.

This one, they'll keep.


End file.
